Death Note: Last Note
by Happy Wendigo
Summary: By the year 2029, many have tried to use the Death Note, and all have failed. Though, when an 18-year-old young man named Roland Marks gains ownership of his own Death Note, that fact changes yet again. Will Roland be able to live up to the first Kira? Or will his memory die alongside the rest who came before him?


**Chapter One: June 5th, 2029**

 _"The human whose name is written in this note shall die."_

* * *

Something about the day was... off. Somehow. Nothing in the air, nothing in the sky, not a single thing seemed different to any other inhabitants of planet Earth. Though something is always off, there are only a select few who will notice it. The air was hot, the sky white, gray, and blue. The stench of sweat and indifference permeated throughout the city, all unique to their sources yet still the same.

A young man with dyed fire-engine red hair, oh he was no different. He sat with a semi-aggressive expression on his face, pawing at some lights floating in mid-air that somehow communicated that he'd have to walk another few blocks to the nearest bus stop. Crossing and uncrossing his legs, he couldn't find any way to get comfortable as his ankle screamed at any sign of movement. He tried to hold in a growl, though the passerby began to walk away a little faster. Some just went on as they normally would, not paying attention at all, simply because it didn't affect them in any way whatsoever.

The sky grayed a little bit more, as some surprise precipitation made its way onto the Chicago streets, rooftops, cars, and pedestrians.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." He bared his teeth and managed to hold in another growl, getting up from the bench he'd found himself comfortable on for the last thirty seconds and speed-walking toward wherever he thought he was going to go.

The rain only got heavier and heavier, until some girls started running into the nearest cafe a little bit past the bus stop that was in the distance, sort of shining like a heavenly light.

His legs went faster and faster, but the rain still patted on his shirt, sticking it uncomfortably to his back like glue. A vibration on his wrist caught his attention, as he quickly pushed a button to see what in the world it was going on about.

"Mr. Marks, it is going to rain soon."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Of course, the bracelet didn't reply, but making an angry remark toward anything, living or not, was mandatory for keeping him partially sane for the next couple of minutes. He kept walking and walking, since running wouldn't make his ankle feel any better, as he envied everyone else's ability to run at this moment.

Finally, the shelter of the bus stop was only about three feet away. A brief moment of relief- no, a brief moment of being a bit startled, washed over him. Some little black thing plopped onto his shoulder, balancing ever-so gracefully and carefully.

It still hurt.

He shook (well, more like twitched really) and turned his neck to his right shoulder before he stepped into the little glass thing at the bus stop. The cover was blank, and as he removed it from his shoulder and flipped through the pages, they were blank as well. He looked up at the sky, hoping to see some explanation for this incident, but none showed themselves. No kids on the rooftops, no drones, hell, even fairies would make more sense than just a notebook appearing out of nowhere.

He opened the notebook again, hoping to find something more interesting from something that literally fell out of the sky. Flipping pages slowly back and forth, he lost hope. Five, six, seven, twenty-three...

"What the hell?!" That yell, or loud-ish exclamation attracted quite a few looks, but certainly it was justified.

'Roland H. Marks' was written on the thirty-sixth page, staring back at him. Well, only including enough of the 's' to say that it was definitely meant to be written before the ink on the page slid off. The notebook most certainly wasn't thrown, nor did it fall from anywhere more than ten feet up. There was no possible explanation for it being there, or for whatever creature thing that dropped it to know his name (or this much of it, at least).

More odd and flat out terrified looks came his way, children were pulled closer, and people began walking much, much faster.

Roland stiffened as the bus came by, temporarily stepping outside of the comfort of shelter from the nearly acidic and illness-inducing rain. The doors moved in unison, with slight inaccuracy, but close enough to be considered 'in unison' nonetheless.

Pulling out his Ventra card from his wallet, he held it up as a red laser scanned it.

"Crazy day?" The old looking bus driver asked in a Polish accent.

Nodding, he quickly made his way to an empty seat near the exit doors of the bus. He was next to a woman with a big nose and her spawn that was crying hysterically for no known reason. There was a guy staring at him with bloodshot eyes, and a teenage boy calling some unfortunate unknown person somewhere else in the world a 'Dick riding nob nibbler' while playing games on the highest volume setting. Of course, everyone else boarded upon the bus wasn't really that bad. Though he wasn't sure if yelling at a notebook for no reason made him one of the 'weird ones' or not.

He sat and dripped on the seat for a little while, staring at the notebook he somehow decided was a good idea to keep.

 _Nothing but a name- my name. Completely blank, fell outta the sky... I need more than this! The hell is this supposed to mean? Should I test it out or something, write a name on there like mine was written? Screw this._

Staring, sitting, and dripping there for an undetermined amount of time, Roland finally got up and off of the bus at the corner of some run-down looking street.

Stepping down the sidewalk, the rain poured even harder on him. By then, the long sleeves of his shirt wrapped uncomfortably around his arms and aside from the buttons, his white shirt was nearly see-through, his socks were wet and squished disgustingly against his fancy-ish shoes.

As soon as his apartment came into view, he sped inside and slammed the door shut. The shoes he wore dragged water across the wooden floor that was sort of decaying underneath him. Walking up a few flights of stairs, keys rattled and a door was shut in a much more friendly manner.

 _Boop boop._

"Jonathan L. has sent you a message."

Roland grunted, tapping the button on his wrist.

' _Hey Roland, can you come into work on Saturday? Hana cancelled, and you know how hectic Saturdays are. Sorry for doing this right after graduation and while things are crazy, but there's only two waiters scheduled._ '

He stared back at the black notebook and decided to make this conversation as short as possible.

' _No, sorry. A good friend of mine's coming into town. Gotta show him 'round the city, haven't seen him in a while. Again, really sorry._ '

Taking the bracelet off and placed it on a box by the door, he heard his notifications go off twice more, probably his boss's desperate pleads for help. He ignored them in hope that he didn't have to work Saturday once more, and gave the notebook a little stare again.

He slid his shoes off as he set the notebook 'Too fuckin' heavy' that remained by the door. A flimsy tall lamp in the corner flickered on, illuminating an ugly looking beige loveseat, a large torn screen hung on the wall, and a few more sad looking small boxes in the otherwise empty looking front room. He decided to take this opportunity to unpack a slightly bigger box labeled 'Clothing, and school uniforms to be burned in the fires of hell'.

Reasonable amounts of relief filled him as he changed into more casual clothes, a black t-shirt and gray jeans. Plopping onto the ugly loveseat and sinking in much quicker than expected, he opened up the notebook and stole it from the box's surface.

 _If my name was written in this notebook that I'm pretty sure appeared literally out of nowhere, then a name must have significance to whatever mystical properties this notebook_ could _have. Of course, this could always be a prank, but I never told anyone that my middle name began with an 'H'. It's not like my old man would do anything as stupid as this, either._

He got up and slid over to his pantry, opening the wooden doors only to see nothing but some veggie straws and a jar of Marmite with a little note on it. 'Terror in a jar, take it brotha! -Lou'.

Deciding that the Marmite was only a death trap, he stuck with the veggie straws. Though as he reached up, he nearly lost his balance and stumbled backward. He growled and grabbed the stool that stood tauntingly in the corner of the kitchen, right where the counter ended. Somehow, with a lot of pushing, hopping, standing on tippy toes, and vulgar swears that should never be repeated, he ended up getting his veggie straws.

Moving back to the couch, he laid on his back looking up at the ceiling. Putting a straw in his mouth in a similar fashion to a cigarette, he continued to think again.

 _This notebook having most of my full name in it also proves that whatever being wrote this and dropped it on my shoulder has some way of knowing my name, too. Meaning that it had to have something to do with the creature's survival, right? Otherwise knowing my name and writing it down would be useless?_

He munched through his first veggie straw, and put another between his lips.

 _And if it was right next to me while writing my name down for whatever reason, that also means that it has a need to see my face in order for whatever to work..._

He licked his fingers and turned the page to where he saw his name nearly written.

 _A name and a face... sounds sort of like Kira, doesn't it?_

His eyes widened. His eyebrows contorted into something that looked like confusion, his munching turned into an awkward silence of some sort of revelation that was most likely being disowned in the other part of his mind.

 _But it can't be. Kira disappeared like twenty years ago, right? And I'm pretty sure Kira's weapon... it couldn't be something this simple, right?_

He immediately jumped up from his position on the couch, and turned on his TV (well, whatever they might call 'TV' in their time). Lights shot up from a big, bulky strip of a metallic looking fake plastic that sat on a short, cheap looking melamine table. It was nearly bending under the 'heavy' weight of the one object on it.

Typing away at his keyboard and clicking frantically, he impatiently flipped through the cute cat videos and amateur movies with cringe-worthy quality. Finally, after about ten seconds, he found a decent news station. It seemed as if all they talked about on the news these days was negative and terrible, so he'd have no trouble finding exactly what he wanted.

 _"...many acts of terrorism have happened throughout major cities like New York and Los Angeles, we have yet to figure out who exactly is behind these attacks, but Mauve Lillie and Freddie Dylan have been taken into custody today after being seen on camera planting bombs at Central Park in New York City, their trials will be held next Saturday, but they most certainly will be getting life in prison after their actions caused the deaths of twenty seven people, including three children._ "

As he bubbled with a slight rage after remembering what had happened the previous day, he searched his pockets and found the red pen he had always carried around with him. He flipped back to the first page, or, at least what he believed to be the first page.

His pen didn't feel like it was moving, it seemed like almost an instant. Though looking down, he saw the names there in red ink, something completely unplanned yet fitting nonetheless. If it was actually going to kill, at least.

His heart, beating.

 _Boom boom._

 _Boom boom._

 _Boom boom._

Though after two minutes, he couldn't stand watching it anymore. It was apparent that nothing was going to happen, that this notebook may have just been some prank conducted by one of his high school friends that found his records and real name or something. Maybe that was the case. In disappointment, he slumped over and turned the television off.

He sighed in a sort of weird emptiness.

"I'm so stupid, aren't I?"

He plopped back on his back, putting another two veggie straws in his mouth, a carrot one and a spinach one. He consumed them much faster than the others, maybe because he wasn't thinking about anything this time. Maybe he was just disappointed to the point that the emptiness made him hungry. He was there for only a good thirty seconds, before the notifications on his phone started going crazy. The box that it sat on was nearly snapping in half.

 _Boop boop!_

 _Boop boop!_

 _Boop boop!_

"Mr. Marks you have three new-"

 _Boop boop!_

 _Boop boop!_

 _Booooooooooooo-_

"What the-?" He scampered over to the box and tapped the button.

' _Woah, Roland!'_

 _'Roland!'_

 _'Roland!'_

 _'Hey Roland!'_

 _'I saw something really cool on the news!'_

 _'Those terrorist people died of heart attacks while in custody of the police!'_

 _'Coincidence?'_

 _'I think NOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTTT~!'_

"Mr. Marks, you have eight new urgent messages from Allison Kowalczyk."

Dropping his phone in shock, he stopped breathing for that one moment. His heart began beating much harder than it ever has before, than it ever will. His entire body froze in place as the pupils in the middle of his dark eyes dilated to almost an unnatural size, small tremors spread through him.

The world was in his hands. His hands, Roland Marks' hands. He had just killed two people, and within an hour he had become one of the most infamous criminals of all time.

Though even with the cross ironically placed in his ears, and the reprimanding looks of his older brother and little sister hanging from the wall, he wasn't able to sputter out any better words to accurately describe the situation.

" _Goddamn_."


End file.
